What if ?
by Mushroom Hair
Summary: We never met.
1. Chapter 1

"Yes Mum…"

Syed held the phone slightly away from his ear and mouthed 'blah blah blah.'

"But she left me. What can I say? Yes, I know. Good family, yes."

He listened glumly to his mother's voice on the other end of the line, berating him, pleading.

And she was right. Saira had been gorgeous. Funny, intelligent, sophisticated, beautiful. She would have made an ideal wife.

But, like the others before her, he had seen the love die in her eyes, replaced by confusion, self doubt.

He remembered that last evening together. Sitting at opposite sides of the table in the expensive restaurant, urging her to choose whatever she wanted from the menu, throwing money at her as a replacement for intimacy.

"You say you love me, but you're so cold. When you kiss me it's as if your heart is a million miles away."

And he had nothing to say in reply. Because she was right. And all he felt as she swept, weeping, into the cold London street was a faint sense of relief.

It had been easier with Amira. She had been so caught up with the idea of him, his looks, his cash. Plus, thankfully, she wanted to save herself for her wedding night, so he had avoided those embarrassing, gut turning occasions he had suffered with other girlfriends, their seduction, their need, having to think of pathetic excuses, making himself out to be a paragon of virtue who was preserving their morality, when really the thought of intercourse with them, their soft feminine bodies, made him feel physically sick.

Eventually, even Amira had tired of waiting. Met someone richer who was more than happy to give her the fairy tale romance, the family and position that she secretly craved.

He turned his attention back to his Mother's disappointed ranting.

"Yes Mum. But I'm only thirty. And you've got Tambo's wedding to arrange, you don't need another one just yet, surely?"

The squawking increased and he sighed.

"I'm really focused on work at the minute, no time for love."

This calmed her slightly. If nothing else she was enormously proud of how well his property business was doing.

And this was mostly down to her. If she hadn't managed to smuggle the money to him for the development, hadn't smoothed things over with his Father, he would have had to return to live with them.

It had been a mixture of luck and bare faced audacity that had enabled him to prosper in the recession when so many others failed. That, and a huge dollop of charm.

He was so glad it had paid off though, enabled him to get his family away from that East End square and into their four bedroom home in Hampstead.

He mentally clocked up how much their house would now be worth and realised he was writing the sales spec for it in his head as his Mother droned on.

"Yes Mum. Of course I'll be over for the Mehndi rehearsal. Give everyone my love.. Yes I am eating properly.. No, I don't need you to get Bushra to introduce me to anyone. Bye now, bye, bye, bye…"

He snapped the phone shut and threw it across the glass coffee table. Clutching his head and shouting; "My ears!" into the silence of his flat.

He tightened the towel around his waist and padded on bare feet across the solid oak flooring, relishing the warmth that came from the heating beneath.

The large glass windows opened smoothly and suddenly the apartment was full of noise, the low hum of constant traffic, the horn of a passing barge below him. He stood on the terrace, leaning against the metal rail and gazing across the Thames to Canary Wharf, it's glass glittering magically in the late afternoon sun.


	2. Chapter 2

"Alright Shirl?"

Christian winked as he strode by, swinging the plastic bottle of semi skimmed milk from his little finger.

He smirked to himself as he felt her eyes turn to check out his rear.

'Still got it.'

He paused at his front door and glanced up at the neon sign above that read; 'CLARKE'S'

Looking through the frosted glass window of the gym, he could see vague shadows of the exercise machines, hear the pump of the music, and wondered if he should go in to check how Peter was getting on without him.

Fighting back the temptation, realising he should try and stop being such a control freak, he let himself in and climbed the stairs to his flat.

He was immensely proud of his business. It had taken years of standing out in the gardens in all weathers, pushing unfit people to their limits, until he had earned enough money to buy the derelict house next to Patrick's.

The downstairs now converted to a classy fitness centre, all to his own design, the upstairs his luxurious home.

'And love den.' He laughed at the thought, stowing the milk into the fridge, wondering how it was that, even though he owned a successful, thriving business employing three staff, he still ended up running out of milk and having to go and get it from the Minute Mart with depressing regularity.

He pulled his sweaty vest over his head and turned on the water in his wet room, stopping for a moment to admire the Italian tiles that had cost an arm and a leg.

He flexed his muscles, stiff from the day's work and the previous night's sex marathon.

Slipping off his track suit bottoms he stepped in and relaxed as the steaming water beat onto his skin, trying to remember the name of last night's boy.

He had drunk an ocean of booze in that club, amazing how much he put away for a supposed fitness guru, good job his clients never found out.

Hal? Harry? Horace, no not Horace, he'd never had a Horace. Or had he? Anyway, he had been pretty, long lithe limbs, delicious arse, a cock to die for.

At least that's what Christian hoped, all he truly recalled through the drink fuelled haze was the disappointment in the man's eyes when he had got his name wrong and asked him to show himself out, rolling over and going back to sleep without asking for his phone number, not even a peck on the cheek goodbye.

"I'm a prize bastard." Christian spoke aloud, feeling a pang of disgust at himself, and turned his face into the shower spray, hoping the force of it would wash away the experience, erase all the zipless one night stands, make him clean.

Black jeans, tight black T shirt, he checked his reflection in the full length mirror next to his king size bed.

He frowned at himself, looking for new wrinkles, pulling out a stray grey hair. A faint, quiet voice nagged insistently inside him, buzzing in his subconscious like a fly, asking him if maybe he was too old for this, should find a different life, that his success might be sweeter if he could share it with someone else.

Snapping on his watch and picking up his keys, he chivvied the notion away, he had tried that with James, ended up breaking the poor man's heart and ruining a friendship he had valued since childhood, all because he couldn't keep it in his pants. Besides, It was Friday night and Soho was waiting.


	3. Chapter 3

Syed blinked in the gloom of the pub, his eyes slowly adjusting from the bright sunlight outside. He could see his friends at the bar, Will, Kev, Rash. He felt a little twinge of sorrow as he suddenly realised that all their names were abbreviated, fondly reduced for manly camaraderie. Except his. As if there were something about him that made him separate, other.

'If only they knew.' he thought.

Kev spotted him and made a rude gesture, Syed weaved his way through the crowd, six thirty on a summer's evening in Soho and the place was already packed.

As he neared them the combined scent of their aftershaves caught acridly in the back of his throat, making him unable to smell his own. They looked hot in their expensive suits, buttoned up, controlled, so different from how they would look at closing time, pissed and dishevelled, all dignity and suavity evaporated with the alcohol.

Apart from him and Rashid of course.

"Cheers Rash."

Syed accepted the orange juice thankfully and subtly edged himself around so that he could lean against the wood of the bar. He moved a sodden beer towel with distaste, balancing his elbow between it and the ice bucket, trying not to get the sleeve of his Hugo Boss jacket wet.

"Saira coming later?" Kev asked cheerily. Syed could tell from the pinkness of his already rosy round face that he was well on the way to intoxication.

He pulled a sad face.

"She dumped me."

"Aw mate!" They all clustered around him and Will pulled him in for a hug. Syed extricated himself quickly and held his hands up.

"What can I say? She got a better offer."

Rashid slapped him on the back fondly.

"Don't worry mate, there's always my sister."

'Yes' considered Syed wryly 'There is always someone or other's sister, cousin. niece…'

"She's too good for me Rash. Will, how's the new car?"

Syed settled back, relieved that he had cleverly managed to deflect the interest away from his love life, or lack of it.

"Brilliant mate, you should come round. I'll get Sally to make us dinner, take you out for a spin. You still driving the Merc.?"

The conversation settled into it's usual path. Who had the best motor, whose house cost the most, whose wife, girlfriend, mistress was fitter, who was going to the furthest flung, undiscovered, most wonderful paradise island for a holiday, and Syed felt his soul whimper and a small part of it give up the ghost and die.

Kev, with a surprising and hitherto unheard of attentiveness, noticed that Syed's eyes had gone a little bit glassy and that he was merely nodding and going 'oh' in the expected places.

"You alright chap? Not too cut up about Saira? Jared will be here later, his missus is giving him the run around, you can cry into your beer, well juice in your case, together."

Syed's stomach lurched sickeningly.

'Please no, not Jared.' but he mustered up a pleased expression.

Jared from a rival business, six foot two West Indian Jared with his chiselled jaw, high cheekbones and beautiful, beautiful mouth. Funny, friendly heterosexual Jared.

Syed had once made the mistake of accepting the challenge of a game of squash with him, the sight of his body afterwards, naked in the shower, had almost killed him.

In fact, Syed was sure his refusal to join him, and his haste in rushing off unwashed, had probably earned him the nickname 'Stinky Masood.'

The memory of it was making his groin ache, a dull agonising throb that he wouldn't be able to deal with at home alone, a need that required danger to quell it, a trip to the dark side.

"Sorry guys. I feel a bit rough, going to have to call it a night."


	4. Chapter 4

"Stevo!"

Christian yelled across the heaving throng in Compton's and started to barge his way through.

"Christian, darling!" He was kissed theatrically on both cheeks and handed a bottle.

"Got you beer, sweetie. Unless you're on the absinthe again, like last night?"

Christian groaned and took a swig.

"Was I? This is grand thanks. Where's Sam?"

Steve tutted and ran his hand through his bright bleached hair.

"She went to the bog ages ago, probably got distracted by something, or someone, shiny. You know what she's like."

As if on cue, a slight young man in his early thirties, dressed in a T shirt with a picture of a bulldog on the front and tight red cut off jeans, came squeezing bad temperedly through the crowd.

"Oh and excuse me too I'm sure…Christian! You big hunk of fun! How are you today!"

Christian bent and kissed him on the mouth.

"Just dandy. You?"

Steve was staring sulkily at Sam.

"What took you so long?"

Sam rolled his eyes at Christian and mouthed 'men!' before picking up Steve's arm and draping it around his shoulder.

"They've got some new condom in the machine, Rodge was showing me. Honestly it's vile, a weird green colour with some sort of dangly bit for extra pleasure. Not very romantic, I'm sure."

Christian chuckled.

"As long as they've still got extra large."

Steve and Sam yawned very loudly in his face and chanted.

"Whatever!"

"Anyway you." Continued Steve "How did you get on last night with that little fitty?"

"Yeah, you dirty old man." Sam chimed in.

Christian looked slightly abashed and hung his head.

"I can't remember."

"WHAT? He was hot, told me he was eighteen."

Christian's eyes widened in alarm.

"Eighteen? Oh God please don't let me have been the first. I feel disgusting, I don't even know what his name was."

Sam and Steve exchanged glances.

"Eustace?"

"Norris?"

"Boris?"

"Shut it you too, you're not making me feel any better."

Christian stared morosely out of the pub window into the busy street, watching the crowds pass by in their Friday night finery, looking for sex and hoping it could be love.

"You shouldn't have done the dirty on James, you filthy ram. You could have been like me and Sam."

Steve smiled down at his partner and Christian snorted.

"I got bored. So you think I'd be happier as a smug married like you two, with your dinner parties and nights at the theatre?"

Sam twirled the gold band on his finger.

"Opera tonight sweetie. We're very cultured. Off to see that La Boheme and her tiny frozen hands."

All three began to sing the aria tunefully until they were booed by the people around them.

"Philistines." grunted Sam.

"So you're going to leave me on my own, on a Friday night." Christian pouted.

Steve patted his cheek.

"I'm sure you'll find someone to play with. Mind you, there's a lot of clones in tonight. And youngsters, but you like them young."

Christian had begun to feel faintly depressed. He wasn't sure what he liked anymore, in fact the idea of just going home to someone special and watching crap on the television had never been more appealing. From the corner of his eye he could see a man with a floppy brown fringe and a very well cut suit giving him the come on, but he seemed to have suddenly lost all his energy. Maybe he should just go home, hug a cushion and watch Come Dine With Me.

But he fought the moment away, a track he liked came on, the chatter rose around him, the alcohol kicked in and he was back in the zone.

"Got time for another before you go?"

Steve looked at his watch and nodded.

"Come on then, let's take it outside. Too sweaty in here!"


	5. Chapter 5

Syed emerged, relieved, from the noisy pub. Hovering on the step, trying to avoid being bumped into by the passing revellers, he wondered which way to turn.

His suit felt cloying, claustrophobic in the warm evening air and he took off his jacket, no longer caring if it became creased or spoiled. He undid the top two buttons of his blue shirt and pulled it free of his trousers. He looked to the right.

That way lay Old Compton Street, to the left was the quickest route to the underground station.

Should he return home and go online? The internet dating sites scared and excited him in equal measure, but he detested the code names, the listed sexual preferences, the graphic descriptions of cock size, which in his limited experience usually turned out to be grossly exaggerated.

Also there would be the decision of where to meet. He felt safer in his own flat, yet hated having strangers there, it made the atmosphere feel wrong, sullied for weeks afterwards.

But if he met them in their homes there was the ever present worry that they might turn out to be weird, dangerous or just plain ugly and he might not be able to escape.

He had started to wonder if it was even worth the bother, but the griping twist of desire was still gnawing away at his gut so he took a deep breath and turned right.

At least if he met someone in a bar he could talk to them, achieve a kind of intimacy, find out something about their lives. They would discover nothing about his though, that had to be kept separate, safe.

Wiping a bead of nervous sweat from his brow he strolled down the street, attempting to look inconspicuous, as if he belonged.

There was a crowd standing outside the bar on the other side of the road. A loud guffaw caught his attention, a voice shrieking "Christian, you twat." and he paused.

He both hated them and loved them. Loved them for their bravery, their confidence, the hard won acceptance of who they were, who they chose to love.

Hated them for many of the same reasons, jealous that they could be so brazen, weren't closeted by family, culture and faith, knew who they were and didn't care who else did.

Syed felt like crying. He hovered by a shop window, pretending to look at the array of glossy expensive toasters and Alessi kitchenware, but stealthily stealing glances across to the group.

Three men were chatting at the far side. Two of them, one built like a gladiator, impossible blonde quiff gleaming in the dying sun, one small and slight with an edgy, clever face, were hugging each other and calling the third man names.

He stood slightly apart, leaning insouciantly against the wall, an indulgent half smile on his lips but his eyes distracted. His tight top stretched over well defined muscles, smooth arms that bulged as he lifted the bottle to his mouth, his neck curving to swallow, revealing the mole on his neck.

Syed wanted to kiss it.


	6. Chapter 6

"Well of course I knew that really."

Christian petulantly picked at the label on his beer bottle, peeling back the paper.

"No you didn't." Steve said, giving him a playful prod in the ribs.

"You thought me and him were going to roll up at Covent Garden dressed like this."

Sam stopped laughing long enough to splutter;

"Credit us with a bit more class Christian, though I hear they let anyone in nowadays, even you."

"Yeah, yeah. Are you two going soon? Please say you are."

"How rude! You should come with us, you know how much you enjoyed Laura's last production, until she asked you to leave."

Christian giggled and flushed slightly.

"I thought it was meant to be funny. Hamlet on a unicycle and a fire breathing Ophelia.."

"It got even more hilarious when her wig caught fire."

Sam started to titter helplessly and Christian smiled fondly at him.

"Did it? Shit and I missed that bit. I bet this time she's interpreting La Boheme through the art of mime, Opera with no music, it's the nouvelle vague."

They mimed having tiny frozen hands in unison and laughed at each other.

Wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye, Christian mused;

"It's a shame there's not more opportunities for getting suited and booted though, all dressed up for a big night out, don't you think?. I like a man in a suit."

Steve looked down at his own ripped jeans.

"Do you? No hope for me and him then. There's always that guy who was checking you out earlier, inside the bar."

Christian shuddered slightly.

" I was thinking more along the lines of him over there." He indicated with his eyes to the nervous figure loitering on the other side of the road.

Steve and Sam made to spin round for a better look, but stopped as Christian hissed;

"Don't stare, you'll scare him, he looks freaked out."

"Tourist?" suggested Steve.

Sam had twisted his head slightly and was trying to peer subtly over one shoulder.

"Definitely. Wife and kids at home. This is his Friday treat."

Christian sighed, unable to dispel a faint pang of disappointment.

"Shame. He's beautiful."

"You could give him a go. Shall I call him over?"

Steve went to lift his arm to wave and winced as Christian grabbed it in a vice like grip.

"God no. I can't cope with the self loathing afterwards. That embarrassment as they scuttle to put all their clothes back on, bleating 'I'm not really gay you know!' Yeah right."

Steve and Sam exchanged looks.

"Who's rattled your cage sweetie?" Sam asked kindly.

Christian groaned and ran his hand over his head, surprised by the feel of sharp bristle, realising he had been imagining wrapping his fingers through long dark hair.

"I'm sorry, I'm being a right moany old Quentin."

Sam sidled up to him and whispered in his ear.

"Well I don't expect this will cheer you up, but stalker alert. That guy in the suit is coming this way."

"He never is."

Christian wondered why, despite everything he had said, he was suddenly so ridiculously pleased. He pushed back his shoulders, turning to smile.


	7. Chapter 7

Syed knew he was starting to appear peculiar, staring intently at a toaster in a shop window for so long, as if he possessed a chrome fetish.

'Or the whisks, I want to do bad things with whisks.' He smiled to himself.

He decided it might be better if he moved into the shadows.

He sidled along and tucked himself into a doorway, praying that nobody came out and asked him what he was doing.

'And what am I doing?' He wondered.

What had they called him? That man? Christian.

Syed longed to say it aloud, see how it felt on his tongue, send the name into the air, scream it in his ear at the point of orgasm.

"Oh shit." Syed moaned quietly, whipping his jacket from over his shoulder and holding in front of his groin.

He had to make some sort of decision, he couldn't keep standing there indefinitely, lurking pathetically outside a front door with a rampaging hard on, lusting at a stranger he knew nothing about.

Maybe he should just go home, he knew no other man had any chance of satisfying him tonight, perhaps the fantasy would be enough after all.

Or he could just cross the road, introduce himself, take a chance.

And Christian looked like the sort of person it was worth risking everything for.

"How can you possibly know that.' Syed chastised himself.

He might just be one of those guys who loved himself. Obsessed with his own image, hours in the gym building muscles he never used, awash with steroids. Weekends spent off his face, different men every night.

Syed had to admit to himself that even this seemed exciting, the danger of that other reality, where everything was about sex.

But he had sensed something different about the man, about Christian, even from the other side of the road.

An energy, the easy supple grace of his body, the quiet watchfulness, the sense of a noble heart.

'Oh for fuck's sake, get over yourself Syed, he's just hot and you fancy him.'

Syed felt himself impelled to go over, a hidden magnetic pull dragging him into danger.

But as he stepped from the kerb he saw Christian turn, saw another man approach him, a man of similar build to Syed, suited, dark hair curling on his collar, and he saw Christian's face fall, felt his disappointment, watched as he shook his head and touched the man's shoulder, almost spinning him round, sending him away.

'I'm not his type.'

Syed felt tears prick behind his eyes, devastated by the realisation that he could never be with a man like that.

No, not a man like that, that man, Christian.

His vision blurred, he almost ran down the street, dodging through the crowds, muttering sorry as people stared after him, knowing they were shaking their heads at him, hearing them call him 'nutter.'

He had calmed down a little by the time he reached the underground station, had started to just feel foolish over his frenzy about a stranger.

'Probably just over worked.' He almost believed the lie and reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet.


	8. Chapter 8

Christian's face fell.

"Hi!"

The man smiled up at him. He was alright, deliberated Christian, usually he would have done. Nice teeth, blue eyes, frame thin but wiry, looked like he'd go through the card. Bit pasty though.

Christian's mind filled with the man from over the road. That luscious golden skin, the wild hair, a sense of hunger, need and an underlying sweetness.

Christian shivered.

'What on earth is wrong with me?'

"Could I buy you a drink?" The man asked.

'Scottish accent." thought Christian. 'That's usually a plus.'

He could hear Sam and Steve tittering behind him and tried to will them to shut up.

"No thanks mate. I'm going soon. Got a date."

Christian patted the man's shoulder apologetically and pushed him round, almost forcibly shoving him back inside the bar.

"You could have been nicer Christian." giggled Sam.

Christian grimaced guiltily.

"I'm not nice, I'm horny. He had blue eyes, I've got a yearning for brown. Big, sad, brown, beautiful eyes. Like him over the road."

Steve looked at him quizzically.

"How can you tell how beautiful they are from over here, let alone if they're sad or not? Have you developed another superpower Christian Clarke Kent?"

"I just know." Christian gazed across to the front of the kitchen shop.

"Bollocks, he's gone."

Steve and Sam glanced over.

"Oh bummer." commiserated Sam. "Anyway you said you didn't do tourists."

Christian was shocked at how bereft he was feeling.

"I could have made an exception to the rule for that one. He looked different."

Steve played a tiny imaginary violin.

"Aww poor baby. You see the love of your life across a crowded street and he vanishes into the night."

Sam joined in.

"He was probably a figment of your fevered imagination, or an angel sent from heaven to show you the error of your dirty, dirty ways."

Christian laughed in spite of himself.

"Fuck off the pair of you. I thought he was fit, out of the ordinary."

Steve took Sam's hand in his and kissed it.

"We are fucking off now, you poor sad lovelorn fool. Are you going to be okay? You won't do anything silly will you? Like try to shag every single person in Old Compton Street to assuage your pain?"

"If anyone can, it's Christian!" piped in Sam.

"Thank you, I think. I'll be fine. I might go to Vauxhall, get myself something a bit more hardcore."

Sam feigned shock.

"No not leather chaps, whips and chains! Your poor Mother!"

Christian narrowed his eyes at him.

"That's more your bag isn't it Sam? Thinking about it I quite fancy going home and teaching myself how to knit."

"Blimey, you have got it bad!"

Steve bundled him into a hug and Sam joined in.

"Bye lover, don't be a stranger. Knit us both a willy warmer!"

Christian watched them with love as they squealed off towards Charing Cross Road.

He rubbed the skin on his arms, goose bumped now as the evening air grew chilly. The streetlights were buzzing on and the volume of noise from the bar had escalated as it's occupants became more and more pissed.

He crossed the road on route to the underground and found himself hesitating in front of the shop where Syed had spent such a long time loitering.

He peered through the glass.

'Nice whisks.'

He checked quickly up and down the street, hoping he might catch a glimpse of him, trying to imagine what places he could have gone on to.

The sulphurous light from the street lamps gleamed on a small puddle of piss in a nearby doorway.

'Charming!' Christian sniffed in distaste, making to leave.

Then he spotted a small square of black leather.


	9. Chapter 9

Syed felt through all of his pockets for the fifth time.

"Bollocks!"

A business man turned and harrumphed at him and Syed muttered an apology.

He contemplated pushing himself through the barriers behind him, or vaulting athletically over, but the butch female station guard was giving him an evil glare and she looked like she could easily take him in a fight.

'Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.' Syed cursed under his breath as he raced up the stairs out into Oxford Street.

He imagined all his money being extracted from his account in a big wedge, to be gleefully spent on crack up a side alley.

Reaching quickly for his mobile he flipped it open to cancel the card. Frowning in disbelief at the one bar of battery which slowly faded and died, sending the screen blank.

"Bollocks." He reiterated.

He ran down the road, hunting for a phone kiosk in desperation.

The first two he found had the receivers cut, the second one had the dial stoved in.

Finally he located one that seemed to be intact.

Agitatedly punching in the numbers for directory enquiries, to obtain the number of his bank, he stared up at the photo cards gaudily decorating the kiosk.

An airbrushed photo of a scantily clad woman in a state of undress leered down at him, claiming that;

'Madame Titty will take her pants down for you!'

'You're alright, Ms. Titty.' mused Syed. 'You keep them on.'

He heard the ringing tone change and went to put his last twenty pence, the only cash he had managed to find in the deepest corner of his inside pocket, into the slot.

It got stuck.

Syed beat his head slowly against the Perspex cover. He couldn't even ring for a taxi on the firm's account, something he always told his staff never to do.

His only options seemed to be walk home, fashion some kind of instrument out of old McDonald wrappers and earn his fare busking, or do a reverse charge call to his Dad and get him to pick him up.

'Like a fifteen year old.'

He went cold. His Dad might wonder what he'd been up to, why he was all on his own in the centre of London, why he wasn't with his friends.

His friends! Surely they wouldn't have moved on from the pub, they weren't that imaginative. Once they'd found beer to drink and women to ogle they usually stayed put.

Feeling more optimistic, thinking of ways to bluff through the inevitable questions about why he hadn't gone home when he said he was, he retraced his steps.

'They'll probably just think I've been with a prostitute. A female one.' he realised glumly.

He squeezed his way through the masses to the bar two times, he went upstairs to the pool room, he checked the gents. There was no sign of any of them.

'Why did they have to choose today of all days to be spontaneous and interesting.'

It dawned on Syed that he had spent almost the entirety of his night out on the verge of tears. There was nothing to be done but commence the long walk home. Even if he asked to borrow someone's mobile he wasn't sure he could remember anyone's number, so used to just bringing their names up on a list and pressing a button.

Only his family's, and he knew he couldn't stomach the sound of his Mother wailing in the background, shrieking 'Has he been mugged? Why is up there? What's he doing?'

He thought he might as well make the journey back along Old Compton Street, in the faint off chance that he may have dropped his wallet when he was perving at that delicious man and it would still be there, not admitting to himself that he hoped the delicious man might still be there too.

He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ground, scanning the dirty pavement with little optimism. It was louder there now, almost feverish, the buzz in the air electric, people laughing, singing, and above the racket, a very loud shout cut through.

"Oi! Handsome!"


	10. Chapter 10

Christian picked up the wallet and opened it. Intrigued that all it contained was sixty pounds in cash, a debit card, a Boots advantage card, a tube ticket and a photograph of a smiling family group in a London square.

'You travel light…' He checked the name on the bank card. '...Syed Masood. And keep yourself clean.' he smiled at the loyalty card and turned his attention to the picture.

There was something vaguely familiar about the location, he knew most places in London had similarities, but he was sure he recognised one of the buildings in the background. He moved closer to the street light, angling the photo to get a better view.

He spotted a green shop front.

'Minute Mart!'

Well it was possible that they had other branches, not just the one in Walford. He peered more closely at the faces of the group posing stiffly on a bench.

"Fuck me, it's the old postman!"

A passing man leered, staggering drunkenly.

"Don't mind if I do Darlin'. I'll post yer letters."

Christian scowled at him, sending him scuttling away under the steel of his glare.

He pondered the best course of action. There was no business card so he couldn't ring the owner and tell him he'd found his wallet. He vaguely recalled that the Mother, Zainab was it? Had been Denise Fox's boss, and Jane might have known her. Perhaps they had their new contact details so he could send it off to them. That Zainab had been a bit of a tricky customer, he thought, funny but domineering. Masood had been alright though.

Wouldn't they find it odd that he had found their son's wallet? Wonder what he had been doing hanging around in Soho?

Christian doubted if he was out, he recalled his nervousness, the agitation. And if he was married with kids, could it all be a bit difficult to explain away? They had been religious too, Muslim.

Much as he would have loved to see him again, Christian didn't want to make his life a misery, so he pocketed the wallet and decided to hand it in at the police station on his way home. He'd wait a little while, force down another drink in the bar, just in case he came back looking for it.

'You wish, Christian.'

He took up his previous place outside, leaning against the wall, chatting to a couple of old acquaintances, his eyes constantly raking the crowds, seeking a slim, dark figure.

Until he saw him, head down, scanning the floor, misery heavy on his shoulders.

Christian thrust his beer bottle at the man beside him and yelled;

"Oi! Handsome!"

But Syed kept walking.


	11. Chapter 11

**_Here you go, last chapter! Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews, it means a lot to me. I hope you've enjoyed it, it was a bit of a stream of consciousness so forgive me if the writing's a bit loose in places and I probably won't win a prize for punctuation : D Many thanks again :) xxxxxxxxx_**

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Syed felt all hope of finding it squeeze out of him. He timed the journey home in his head, with any luck and a good speed he might be home by two in the morning. At least he hadn't lost his keys. Or had he? He stopped and checked his pockets manically again, only breathing out when he heard a reassuring jangle. Distracted, he wasn't aware of the sound of running feet behind him and the man's voice made him jump.

"Syed Masood?"

An icy hand of fear gripped his insides, that wasn't one of his friends calling him, who else would know he was here?

'It's okay, I'll tell them I'm just taking a short cut, if they ask, they might not ask, they'll never suspect I'm gay.'

All these words whizzed through his brain in the space of a second and he turned slowly.

It was the man. Christian. He was smiling, holding something out.

"You dropped your wallet Sy."

Syed's mouth formed the shape of an 'Oh.' but no noise came out.

"Is it alright if I call you Sy? Some people don't like having their names shortened, I know I don't. It's Christian."

Christian saw his eyes, tawny brown and as beautiful as he'd suspected, a curtain of long black lashes, the pupils wide. He wanted to look into those eyes when he laughed, when he cried, when he came, for an eternity.

Syed smiled and Christian felt the breath catch in his throat.

"Sy's fine. Christian."

It felt so good to say it, a ridiculous pleasure in one name. Syed took in the glory of him as his heart raced. Tall, muscular, the sharp cheekbones, the line of his jaw, felt the heat of him, gazed hypnotised into sparkling green eyes.

He took the wallet that Christian held towards him, both of them holding it, while the crowds blurred around them and the crazy hubbub faded to a drone.

"Thank you. Can I buy you dinner?"

The Beginning.


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